


as you are

by MessKit, soniclipstick (veriscence)



Series: over the hills and far away [1]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, PoW, Pre-Slash, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 18:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13196148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessKit/pseuds/MessKit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/veriscence/pseuds/soniclipstick
Summary: The war’s done a number on Collins, that’s easy enough to see. There’s an angry burn scar, raised and jagged, running down his jaw and sneaking under his loose collar that hangs limply off his thin frame.He still takes Farrier’s breath away.(Farrier travels to the Highlands after the war to return something beloved to Collins. He has an overnight train back to London, but he ends up finding a reason to stay.)





	as you are

**Author's Note:**

> So Jen made me watch Dunkirk and then of course, we had to write fic about it. This is my first big collaboration, and we really hope you like it!

  _15\. December 1945_ _  
_

Thomas Farrier has never understood how hills could roll, not until he finds himself on a train from London to Glasgow, watching the snow-dusted hills roll and the coats of highland cows grow redder and longer as the journey progresses. The steel-grey sky looks forbidding, but he’s seen worse. Besides, he’s safe in the warmth of the train should the heavens decide to make good on their threat of more icy sleet. The seat is barely padded, but to Farrier — who for years had been sleeping in wooden bunks, frozen grounds, and most recently in a military-issue canvas field bed in a makeshift hospital — it feels feather soft. The train comes to a halt at Carlisle, and outside his window, men, women and school children walk towards the doors of the train. Farrier closes his eyes, feigning sleep as other passengers join him in his compartment. 

Back in the barracks, before Dunkirk, before his capture, Collins used to tell him about home, sometimes — if they had the time and luxury to stay in bed after making frantic, desperate love. He’d lay on top of Farrier, his pale, large hand splayed over Farrier’s’ bare chest. Collins would whisper into Farrier’s’ neck, telling him about the valley where his ancestors had built a home, where generations of Collinses grew up and tended to the farm and the mill. He’d talk about Peggy, his older sister who worked as a wireless radio operator in some small town in the north of Buckinghamshire, much to the pride of her little brother. If he were drunk enough, he’d speak of his mother, tell Farrier about his worries about her having to tend to the farm all by herself in her frail state.

Other than the wheezing of the old steam train and the rush of wind outside, there is nothing to be heard. Farrier finds himself dozing. It should be unsettling to a city mouse like him, who’d been born and brought up in East End. He’d never even been as far south as Richmond before the war but here he was, at the other end of the country, in a train with nothing but a small suitcase in his lap and a Bible in his pocket. As a child, his only lullabies had been the sounds of a millennia old city that never learn to sleep. Yet here, the movement of the train and the whooshing of the wind tuck him in better than any nun at the many orphanages of his childhood ever had. 

Farrier does not own much beyond the suitcase, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be bringing it along. He’s only coming for one reason, and then he’ll leave, as Collins obviously wants. It had been months now since his liberation from Stalag Luft III and it had taken him about as long to find out whether Collins had even survived the war. During his stint in hospital, he had asked daily for news: of his old airbase, of surviving pilots, of anything and everything he could get his hands on.  

As soon as he was discharged — before the ink had even dried on the stamp — he was on his way to the nearest branch of the administrative office, crutches clattering loudly on the cobbled street. The office — set up temporarily in the local library, with haphazard stacks of files on every surface — was under-staffed and far too small for the task at hand. Farrier had spent hours there every day for weeks, as new telegrams and phone calls rolled in bearing news of survivors and of the fallen and of those still missing. He had nearly had a heart attack when Mrs. Partridge had informed him that one Collins, H. had been shot down over Italy, but this proved on closer inspection to be the wrong man.

“Are you sure you have the right name, love?”, Mrs. Partridge had asked, looking up from her typewriter when Farrier brought back the same stack of files he’d already searched twice. “Could your friend have been Collings? Collingham? Caliss?”

“I’m sure. Could you check the roster for incoming files? It’s Collins, C-O-L-L-I-N-S.”

The old woman had sighed and agreed to check the yet unprocessed files. She’d eyed Farrier as he returned to his favourite chair, well aware he was quite the oddity. Soldiers made and lost friends every day during the war, and he had seen countless times over the last weeks that usually a simple “That’s a shame.” was all she got upon informing them their comrade had not made it back. He had known he could never explain to her why ‘this Collins fellow’ was of such importance to him, this gaunt and dishevelled man that haunted her little office — he couldn’t possibly know that as much as she tried to stay impartial, she too, secretly hoped this faceless pilot had pulled through.

 

_December 1943_

 

Stalag Luft III. His cellmate Travers has a shoebox. It’s filled with letters from his beloved Adrianne. If one can pay for the letters, Steinauer will sneak them out and mail them.  Farrier has no box of his own, has not even received a single letter to put in the hypothetical box, but he doesn’t think one box would be enough for all the letters he’s sent Collins at the base. Farrier is safe in this camp for now, safer than the flyboys out there, at least that’s what Travers says. Farrier half-heartedly punches him for calling them “flyboys”, and Travers gives him a wry smile. _Save your paper for someone else_ , Beauchamp tells him, _your friend is probably dead already_. But Collins isn’t a friend, and he can’t be dead, Farrier tells himself as he sits down and begins another letter.

 

_15th December 1945_

 

The day the news had finally reached him that Collins had survived the war had been a joyous one. Now off his crutches, he had danced a stiff little jig with a surprised Mrs. Partridge, kissed her on the cheek and promised to write. It wasn’t until he was most of the way down the street that he faltered. If Collins had been alive and well all this time, then why hadn’t he responded? Why hadn’t he been trying to find Farrier? He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the gravity of this new information began to sink into his bones. Only one possible explanation remained. Collins had moved on. Everything that had kept Farrier going this whole time had been an empty, hollow promise. There was no “them” anymore. There had been nothing to return to all along. He was suddenly painfully aware of the file tucked under his arm and equally unsure of what to do with it now.  As he rifled through the folder until he found the current address, he briefly considered sending it in the post, the little Bible that Collins had entrusted him with. That would have been a clear ending to their story, but Farrier has never been good at letting go, so on his way to the post office, he found himself instead at the ticketline at Victoria Station.

He’s probably setting himself up for sorrow. Collins could have a girl of his own, for all he knows. He could be married, could be happy and moved on. God knows there are soldiers who’d rather pretend the war was just a long, drawn out nightmare that they’ve finally woken up from. But he needs to know; he needs to see with his own eyes the kind of man Collins has become in the last five years. He needs to know if Collins still smokes, if he still bites the insides of his cheeks when he’s nervous. He needs to know — if Collins married — what she looks like, what the colour of her eyes are. The answers might break him even more than the Stalag did, but Thomas Farrier has never been known for thinking his actions through all that thoroughly.

See, that’s another thing Collins and Farrier are miles apart in. Collins is cautious, knows when to be careful and when to be rash. Farrier doesn’t think, he does. And if he’s lucky, he’ll live long enough to regret it. Collins is fair-skinned and bright-eyed, lean muscle and sinew while Thomas is dark-hair and brawny. Collins has a home, a family, a place where he belongs. The only inheritance Thomas Farrier’s parents were able to grant him was a last name and a one-way trip to the Wanstead Infant Orphan Asylum, not that he remembers.

 

_April 1940_

They’re sharing a fag on a balcony, higher than any other building for miles and miles, and pretending that the closeness makes up for the fact that they haven’t kissed in a week. With no place to hide, Farrier yearns for the hours he can take his Spitfire up, so he can finally breathe again.

“We weren’t anything special, Farrier. Just, a family, you know?” Collins says, taking a drag and passing the cigarette back. Their fingers linger, until drill sergeants outside and in the ground shouting out regiments tears them apart.

Farrier nods, as if he knows what Collins means.

 

_December 1945_

It takes Farrier a bus and then a cabbie before he arrives at the winding footpath leading through a forest towards the Collins Farm. There’s a flurry of snow on either side but the path has been meticulously cleared. Still, after twenty minutes, Farrier and his aching hip are glad to reach a stone house with bright yellow paint starting to peel from the door. The cold Scottish fog curls under his lambskin jacket and nips at his exposed neck, prompting him to turn up his collar as he looks around. Bushels of weeds poke up through the snow, the barn door hangs off one hinge, creaking slightly in the cold breeze. The surrounding bushes are overgrown and a window on the upper floor is boarded shut.  He pulls himself up the porch stairs. It would look abandoned if not for the lights inside and smoke coming out of the chimney. He could leave the Bible here and walk back to the village High Street. It would only take him an hour or so, and he’s done worse on his bad hip.

And yet. The snow is coming down harder now and the book — despite being wrapped in newspaper — is delicate, and old. Most importantly, it is precious to Collins. He lifts the door knocker, hesitates, then strikes the metal plate with it three times.

The door opens just as Farrier begins to regret his actions, and he’s met with piercing blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair.

“Hello, how may I help you?” the little girl asks him with evidently newly acquired manners, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips the exact way Collins does when he’s curious and guarded. She’s beautiful, as beautiful as her father is, and all the puzzle pieces fall into place.

Farrier’s heart aches.

“Never you mind, little one,” he tells her quietly. “This belongs to your pa, give it to him for me, would you?” He forces himself to smile as he passes her the wrapped package, takes one last good look at those familiar blue eyes, and turns resolutely around to walk back to the village. If he can get there within the hour, he could find lodging for the night and catch his bus back towards London tomorrow morning. It’s a mite cold, but Farrier has his bomber jacket, and he’s had worse in Germany. He’ll be fine, he reasons, trying to fill his mind with anything but the thought of his loss.

Collins’ daughter calls out to him from the doorway several yards behind him, but Farrier is no longer listening, striding as fast as his bad leg will allow. He should have known better. The fairy-tale life he’d built in his mind’s eye to keep him going during the long, harsh days in the camp was exactly and only that: a fairy-tale. Of course. Collins had moved on, found a wife, had a child. Why should a man like him even spare a thought for his wartime bed warmer? Collins was surely a hero in this town, one of the few who came back home, and Farrier was...a stray. A hobbling, sentimental, forgotten stray.

He marches on as best he can, cursing the cold for the wetness leaking from his eyes. That’s the only reason. That can be the only reason.   

 

_May 1941._

“I’ll take you home one day,” Collins tells Farrier one morning while they inspect their parachutes for what feels like the hundredth time. “Might be boring for a cosmopolitan Londoner like yourself, but I think you might find something or other that saves it.”

Thomas kicks the chutes out of the way and pushes him down on the bed, peppers kisses down his neck and collarbone. “Well, I can already think of one good salvation,” he says, and swallows the laughter that bubbles out of Collin’s mouth with a deep kiss.

 

_15 December 1945_

Distant voices may be easy to drown out, but a large hand wrapped around your wrist is less so. Farrier finds himself automatically turning around, his mouth forming an ‘o’ as he catches sight of flaxen hair and a birthmark on an ever-familiar upper lip.

“Thomas?”

His name is whispered; Collins’ voice breaks. “Farrier, is it really you?”

“Last I checked, yeah.” Farrier tries to sound confident and detached. He tells himself his heart is breaking yet again, just like every time Steinauer came by with a letter for Travers and a pitying shake of the head for him.

Collins looks him up and down, once, twice. Then one last time, as if making sure he’s not imagining everything. When he catches his eyes again, they’re shining and filled, but Farrier can’t explain it. “I thought you were dead, Farrier. No one could find you.”

That can’t be right. “But I wrote you.” _I wrote you a hundred times until I ran out of ink and paper and then I stole some and wrote some more. I held out hope that perhaps you would write back, it was the only thing that kept me going until the day we were liberated._

“I never —”

“Uncle Hamish, how is it you’re allowed outside without a coat but I’m not?”, the little girl shouts from where Farrier had left her on the porch, and Thomas expects Collins to take a step back, to turn and head back inside to his where his family is waiting for him. He doesn’t.

Wait.

“Uncle?”

Collins nods, tugging gently at Farrier’s wrist, trying to shake him out of his shocked reverie, that boyish grin of his spreading across his tired features. Farrier sluggishly registers the gesture.

“Come on in, I’ll introduce you to my niece.”

**-**

The sitting room is small but cosy, blankets drape over couches, and a cow-skin rug keeps his feet warm as Collins hands him a piping hot cup of tea in a dainty floral teacup that looks out of place in his rough hands. Lucy, after having introduced herself, had returned to the dog-eared book she must have been reading on the sheepskin rug near the crackling fire. Collins sits himself in the unoccupied armchair to Farrier’s left, close enough that their knees almost touch. But oh, does he want to touch. Something stops him —  in Farrier’s mind, Collins had gone from MIA to alive and well, to disinterested, to married with children, to an uncle raising his niece alone in just one day. What was to say the surprises were finished? He felt slightly detached from his body, like he might wake up from this beautiful dream any minute now.

They drink their tea in silence. Farrier tries not to stare at Collins, but he can’t help it. He catches the multiple times that Collins opens his mouth, then closes it and Farrier knows he’s doing the same damn thing. He wants to break this heavy, stifling quiet, but nothing he thinks of to say seems to fit. The war’s done a number on Collins, that’s easy enough to see. There’s an angry burn scar, raised and jagged, running down his jaw and sneaking under his loose collar that hangs limply off his thin frame. And there’s a dullness in his eyes that Farrier doesn’t remember, not to mention the dark circles. His skin is sallow, and his lips are bitten and chapped, which only happens when Collins is nervous and afraid, and trying to hide it.

He still takes Farrier’s breath away.

Lucy turns the page in her book, and Farrier turns towards the noise. She’s a small, frail-looking thing of just four years, but there’s a strength in her that Farrier recognises, a certain stoic determination she either learned or that runs in the family. And he thanks his lucky stars that the child hadn’t dilly-dallied in taking the odd parcel to her uncle, as he might have been on the bus home at this very moment otherwise, with no sense of the future he’d have just lost. It’s almost comical.

“My sister Peggy was a codebreaker, not a wireless radio operator,” Collins blurts out suddenly. When Farrier turns back to him, Collins’s eyes are fixed determinedly on towards his niece, but his trembling hands betray him. “Of course, I couldn’t actually tell you that during the war. She was one of Bletchley’s finest, killed in the Blitz.”

“I’m so sorry, Collins.”

“Don’t.” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “John, her husband, well he was an infantryman in the Ardennes. The Jerries got to him too.” Farrier has heard of how bloody the fighting had gotten in the Ardennes. “Our ma was watching over her, but she got pneumonia. Made it all the way through the war without a single scratch, dies three weeks after VE-Day.” Collins makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, quiet enough that Lucy doesn’t hear it.

Farrier can’t stop himself, he reaches for Collins, a hand on his knee. But when he comes to his senses and begins to pull away, Collins grabs it, clutches his hand so tightly it hurts. “I thought you were dead, Thomas.”

“I wrote you,” Farrier repeats.

“I didn’t get them, I thought you were—”

“Well, I’m not. Look at me,” Farrier orders. Collins looks at him with shining eyes. “I’m alright. I’m not dead.”

All those letters, all those words he’d crafted just for Collins, lost or never delivered in the first place. “I thought you were dead too, you know. Took me a while to look you up.”

“I’m glad you did,” Collins tells him, pulling his hands away to wipe at his eyes. It’s suddenly awkward again. Farrier, for want of a place to focus his eyes, looks at the calloused hands in his lap, eyeing the two fingers on his left hand that no longer straighten all the way, as if he hasn’t seen them a thousand times before.

“Might I interest you in a biscuit, Farrier?” He looks up, startled to find Lucy at his elbow, staring intently at him with a platter of charred, shapeless biscuits in her little hands. “I made them myself.”

“That’s Mr. Farrier, sir, to you, young lass” Collins scolds, but Farrier can hear the tinge of amusement is his voice.

“Oh, that’s alright,” Farrier says, trying to wave it off. He’s been called Farrier his entire life, even as a child, the nuns called the orphans by last name only. It’s not a bother to him. It had, after all, been how he had introduced himself to the child not a half hour earlier.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Farrier, sir. Would you like a biscuit?” Lucy looks up at him with a broad smile, expectant. 

“I very much would, Lucy, thank you,” he grabs the least burnt-looking one he can, and bites into it. It’s not great; with rationing still in place the recipe had clearly been altered to make do with less butter and sugar. It was bone dry and powdery, but Farrier had been living off stewed cabbage and watery soup for almost five years, so pretending to enjoy this was nothing in comparison. “Thanks darling. That was absolutely delicious.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Farrier, sir.” She beams with pride and holds the plate out to Collins with a flourish. “Uncle Hamish, would you like one too?”

Collins takes one, and Lucy skips away with the platter towards the kitchen. “Sweet lass. She’s never had anything sweet but these ration biscuits in her life. Rationing was hard in the area, and with Ma’s poor health, there was no chance of a trip to the city, even as a treat.”

Collins looks at Lucy like she’s the light of his life. It brightens his eyes and softens his face, a hint of the old Collins peeking through the weariness. When Lucy returns, it’s with a package that’s wrapped in a dish towel. She skips towards him and hands the package over to Farrier, as carefully as if it contained a Faberge Egg. Her hands are small but warm, as they brush against his wrists. “You can take some home with you if you like, Mr. Farrier, sir.”

“Thank you, Lucy, I would love to.”

She pulls away. “But you aren’t going just yet, are you? Will you stay for dinner tonight? He can stay, can’t he Uncle Hamish?”

The two men lock eyes, and for a split second no one speaks as Lucy looks between them expectantly. Then Collins sweeps the girl up in his arms in one smooth motion, spinning her around as she squeals with delight. “Of course, he can, _mo laochain_ , now take the basket and run and fetch some potatoes, carrots, an onion and a head of cabbage from the larder — we’ll need a bigger stew if we’re entertaining guests, won’t we?” And off she runs.

Soon the three of them are in the spacious kitchen, chopping and dicing away. Farrier stands opposite Collins. It takes every ounce of discipline he has not to grin at Collins, who is wearing the frilliest apron he has ever seen. Lucy is perched on a stool at the end of the table, valiantly trying to peel a potato that was far too large for her tiny hands. Her steady stream of commentary on everything from the neighbour’s chickens to the air raid drills, keeps the awkwardness at bay, as Farrier finds himself at a loss for anything to say. And from the glances he sneaks at Collins, so is he.

“And that’s how Marjorie and I ended up as friends after all, even though we got in trouble for getting marmalade on the church bells”, Lucy chirps, shaking them both out of their reveries.

Collins flinches and leans down to whisper in her ear. “Luce, I thought we agreed never to mention that little incident around strangers, hmm?” And without looking Farrier in the eye, he ruffles her hair and hurries off, calling back over his shoulder, “I’m out to the cold box for some meat, don’t set anything on fire while I’m gone.”

“I would _never!_ ” Lucy calls back, with a formidable amount of outrage for someone so small, before turning to him and asking, “Or was Uncle talking to you, Mr. Farrier, sir?”

Caught off guard, he lets out a burst of laughter so hard it hurts his chest. “You know, I think he was joking. He’s like that, your uncle.” Lucy furrows her brow. “Is he?” Farrier’s heart suddenly feels like it’s in a vice, but before he can think of anything to say, she leans in and continues. “He thinks that if anyone finds out about the Marmalade Incident, they’ll say he’s a bad uncle and take me away. But you’re not a stranger, Mr. Farrier, Sir, you were in the milir...the mitil...the milt...you were in the army together with Uncle Hamish. So, the rule doesn’t count with you. You know he’s not a bad uncle, don’t you?”

“I know it very well, Lucy. He’s not a bad anything.”

And with that, Collins is back, still a bit pink about the ears. He must have caught sight of Farrier, eyeing the small bundle wrapped in butcher’s paper in his hand, because he shrugs apologetically as he opens it. “Winter came early in these parts, there was no time to bring in all the crops. Not that there were many to begin with. Between that and rationing, it’s been hard to get a hold of a decent piece of meat for a growing wee one.”

Now unwrapped, he could see that the meat was barely enough for one, let alone three.

“Luckily Uncle Hamish doesn’t like meat, so he gives it all to me. But I think he’s missing out, don’t you, Mr. Farrier, Sir? I think he should at least try a little piece.”

“I agree, Lucy. Won’t you try some for us today, Hamish?”

Collins scowls silently down at the paltry morsel he’s cutting, shoulders tense. “No, I don’t think so. Not today. There’ll be but a bite each if we split it three ways.”

“Oh, I can’t have any, I have strict instructions not to overexert my body, not after all that time on a watery diet.” Farrier has always had a knack for talking himself out of any situation, and he couldn’t stand idly by as Collins went without to provide for his niece. “No meat for me yet, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, come now, Thomas. What doctor would tell a POW to —”

“Doctor’s. Orders.”

And with that he scoops the last remaining ingredients into the pot and sets it down on the old wood stove. He turns back to look at Collins, an air of weary defeat on his thin face. Farrier claps him amicably on the shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly before letting go again. “So, let’s set the table, shall we?

Not long after, as the delicious scent of stew began to fill the kitchen, Collins removes his apron, hangs it on a peg by the door and sits down across from Farrier. It is just the two of them, as Lucy is down the hall in the bath, acting out dramatic scenes of adventure with a wooden boat.  For a while, neither of them speak, content to just stare at each other, the only sounds their breathing and the bubbling stew, punctuated occasionally by faint dialogue echoing down the corridor. Long minutes pass. Then Collins reaches out his hand and places it in the middle of the table and Farrier follows suit, touching the other’s fingertips with his own. It’s a tiny gesture, but one that means more to him than he would ever be able to put into words.

Collins is alive.

Collins is here and breathing, somehow even more beautiful than when he had pictured him in his mind’s eye all those rights back at the POW camp. What wouldn’t he give to read the thoughts behind that pained expression?

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes and they stand up in unison. Without a word, Collins heads over to fetch Lucy, and Farrier sets about dishing up, making sure to put half of the meat in Collins’ bowl and none in his own.

They sit down to what could be described as Farrier’s first normal meal. He’d gone from the great dining halls of the orphanages, to the soup lines at the homeless shelters, to the military mess halls, to the POW camp and finally to the hospital. Now, for the first time, he isn’t eating food designed for efficiency made by people on a schedule. And he relishes it.

Granted, the stew is thinner than before the shortages, but it doesn’t matter. It satisfies more than just his stomach.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had visitors, Mr. Farrier, sir”, Lucy sighs past a mouthful of stew. “Normally it’s just the two of us. Well, that’s not true. Sometimes the poster stops by.”

“The postman, dear,” Collins corrects gently, “and we don’t speak with our mouths full.” He looks at her with a mix of devotion and sorrow, though she misses it, having returned to her dinner.  “I’m afraid I’m not the best company for a wee girl, but after Peggy...well, now I’m all she has left.”

It’s quiet except for the clinking of tableware. As Lucy takes her empty plate away, Farrier quickly reaches out to squeeze Collins’ hand on the table. “She’s a lucky girl to have such a dedicated uncle.”

Collins smiles at him, a quick, fading little thing, and then pulls his hand away as Lucy returns.

-

They work together in companionable silence as they wash the dishes, shoulder-to-shoulder, Lucy dutifully brushing her teeth in the bathroom. They don’t need words, just the simple pressure of skin to skin when they pass each other a plate or cup is enough to bring Farrier peace.

They’re finished, pouring cups of fragrant tea into chipped teacups when they hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet down creaky old stairs. “I’m ready for bed!”

“Say good night to Mr. Farrier, darling,” Collins says, and Lucy comes closer.

“Good night, Mr. Farrier, sir. Will you be here for breakfast?”

“I don’t think so Lucy, I should get going before the inns close,” Farrier tells her. “It was a real pleasure to meet you, young miss.”

Lucy’s face begins to crumble, but Collins speaks up before she can open her mouth. “Don’t be daft, Thomas. You’re staying. Now take that tea and make yourself comfortable on the couch, I’ll be back after I tuck Lucy in.”

“Hamish,” Farrier says, but Collins crouches down to grab Lucy and lifts her up, settling her on his hip before heading towards the stairs.

Farrier sighs, takes the tea and sits down in the living room. The bible is exactly where Lucy had put it, on the coffee table, and Farrier picks it up and rifles through it. He’s well into the third chapter of Esther when he hears Collins come down the stairs.

Farrier turns to face Collins, who’s in old but warm pyjamas, and holding a second folded set in his hands. “The guest room’s really dusty, and the mattress is still in the attic. But I figured I could put you up in my room and stay on the sofa myself.”

“I won’t be putting you out of your own room, Hamish,” Farrier replies. “I’m perfectly fine here. Or at an inn.”

“Must I remind you not to be daft again, Thomas?” Collins asks, handing him the pyjamas. He takes them, but he’s not taking the bed. Never mind that he’s calling without advanced notice, he’s not sure he can sleep in a bed that smells like Collins just yet, without having him there too.

“I can’t take the stairs right now anyway, my leg —”

“— You just made a twenty-minute walk with baggage just fine. Don’t tell me you can’t manage a set of stairs.”

“Exactly, that’s why it’s acting up.”

Collins sighs in exasperation. “Alright then. You can stay here, I’ll add enough wood for the night. And keep these blankets, they’ll keep you warm.”

Farrier nods his thanks. “I’ve got an early bus back towards London tomorrow morning.”

Collins sighs, and then drops the clothes and a pile of blankets beside Farrier on the sofa. “Do you have to?”

“London’s all I’ve got. I’ve got an address for the pension cheques. The RAF Benevolent Fund was kind enough to set me up with the place and I can’t just, you know, disappear into the night. Besides, where else would I go?”

Farrier looks up at Collins, who’s got the Bible in one hand and Farrier’s heart in the other. “Well, off the top of my head, I’d suggest that you stay here. Permanently, I mean. Go to London, get your affairs in order. I doubt the Fund would have anything against you leaving, in fact, I’m sure they’d be perfectly happy to help you sort out readdressing your pension, especially if it means you’ve found a more permanent solution. You could be home by Christmas”.

 

_March 1940_

“I didn’t know you were such a devout Christian man, Flight Lieutenant Collins.” Farrier says sardonically, leaning up against the bunk bed. It’s a bright sunny afternoon and Collins is sitting in the barracks during some rare downtime, reading a Bible. The barracks are two to a room now, and Farrier was lucky enough to get assigned with Collins.

“Squadron Leader Farrier, you and I both know that I’m no good Christian by any stretch of the word, sir.” Collins says with a cheeky grin, but he doesn’t put down the Bible.

Farrier comes closer, presses himself up against the firm line of Collins’ body. Collins moves his arm until it’s wrapped around him. “My pa gave this to me before he died. It was my grandpa’s. My pa never said much, but if he wanted you to know something, he’d make sure to show you.” He opens the Bible again, flipping through the pages until he finds what he is looking for. When Farrier looks closer, he finds a page ripped out. “Leviticus 18 and 20. And Romans 2.”

Farrier may be trying his best to forget the Bible verses he’d been forced by the nuns to learn, but he’s never been able to wipe Leviticus out of his mind. _Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination._ That last word, always spoken with such vitriol, had burned itself into his young mind long before he knew it applied to him.

“Your father ripped them out?”

“We never talked about it. Hell, we never talked much unless it was something about the farm. But I understood.” Collins whispers now, putting the old leather-bound Bible on the nightstand. He pulls the blankets over them, and Farrier moves along with Collins as they rearrange themselves on the bed, coming to rest with his head on Collins’ shoulder and Collins’ nimble fingers combing through his hair. Collins presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. Farrier breathes in the smell of clean sheets and Collins’ skin and shuts his eyes, trying to imprint the smell into his memory.

“Can we never leave this bed, ever?” Farrier asks, and Collins laughs, shaking them both. _Can we never be apart, ever?_ He doesn’t say those pathetic words aloud.

“Depends if you want to get caught. That’s what I miss about my old farm. There’s no one for miles, Thomas.” Collins tightens his grip. “No one to come and see what you’re up to, and tell all the neighbours. It’s quiet.”

“Sounds like a dream, darling,” Farrier replies.

It doesn’t have to be just a dream,” are the last words that Farrier hears before sleeps drags him away by the feet.


End file.
